Bird of a Different Feather
by lovethemajor
Summary: We all look forward to holidays in our own way. Or not. Cal/Gillian Don't own 'em
1. Chapter 1

Bird of a Different Feather

Cal didn't believe Foster when she said she was going to her friend Julie's tomorrow for Thanksgiving. True, she had put enough enthusiasm in her inflection; had added a little bounce to her step. And the smile she favored him with put a few crinkles around her eyes. It was one of her better efforts, Cal thought, and he decided to reward her with a "Good on you, Foster. Enjoy yourselves, yeah? See ya Monday?" as he walked with purpose out of his office and down the hall of the Lightman Group at precisely 5 pm on Wednesday, November 25th. He didn't stick around to hear Foster ask, "Cal, what are you…?" nor did he look back to see the forced smile slide from her face and land with a dispirited plunk on the paperwork she'd been doodling on for the past hour. He didn't notice her propping her head in her hand, closing her eyes and wishing that this Thanksgiving was already one for the books.

Gillian Foster could not remember when she'd had a good Thanksgiving. Oh, there were times as a child, she guessed, when her parents weren't arguing over how much her dad was drinking on that (or any) particular day, though she couldn't remember them. There were years when her college friends invited her to their houses, out of friendship and sympathy for the girl who hated to go home. And there was the brief stretch of time when she and Alec were first married, and they'd joined other Washington couples in their 'I can't be bothered to cook' dance to the fanciest Washington restaurants. At least then the company was diverting, if a little boring, and the liquor flowed. But Gillian couldn't remember feeling at home on _any_ Thanksgiving, and she knew this one wouldn't be any different. If anything, the prospect of spending this Thanksgiving alone – for the first time ever? – filled her with such dread that she decided to stop by the liquor store on her way home, to buy a bottle of the scotch that Cal had given her a taste for. And maybe visit the video store, to find something romantic and gooey that she could cry over and drink to. She brightened momentarily at the sound of a small, but somehow comforting, plan.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Gillian!" "See ya, boss lady!" Ria and Loker were leaving the office together to go their separate ways. Gillian summoned a smile and waved from her desk, wishing them "Happy Thanksgiving" in return. Come Monday, this travesty of a holiday would be over, and _for that_, she would give thanks.

Cal was striding up and down the aisles of Giant Food on Northeast Brentwood, pushing his cart like a battering ram through the clumps of last-minute holiday shoppers. He had already ordered a stuffed, pre-cooked turkey (he'd have to be _daft_ to attempt to fix one of those himself; might as well just shoot the bird and eat it raw), which could be picked up tomorrow at noon. He had in his hand a list of items that Emily had culled from remembered Thanksgivings, ones where Zoe had attempted a home-cooked meal. Cal headed into the produce aisle to grab a bag of cranberries ("_much_ better than the canned ones, Dad, and all you do is cook 'em 'till they pop"), a three pound bag of red potatoes ("they make the _best_ mashed potatoes, and you only have to cut 'em in half before you boil 'em"), before cutting over to the bakery aisle for a sack of fresh-baked dinner rolls (he had decided to go with Parker rolls, which were his particular favorite) and a "guaranteed fresh" apple pie. He wheeled by the deli to pick up a pound of oriental coleslaw, then beat it to the floral section to grab a bouquet of pink roses, from which he would fashion some sort of centerpiece. He then stood on line for an ungodly amount of time before springing free into the parking lot, and setting a course for home, where an adventure of a culinary sort awaited.

Gillian trudged up the steps to her condo, her arms laden with survival gear. In addition to the booze and the movies, she carried a few bags of Chinese take out, reasoning that she could add an Asian twist to her personal Thanksgiving extravaganza tomorrow. She also sported a sack from Macy's containing a feathery soft pink angora sweater and an ass-enhancing pencil skirt of light gray wool. When depressed, _shop_, was Gillian's motto; also, when delighted, anxious, peaceful, stressed, angry, lonely, insecure and powerful. Gillian Foster was a woman of many feelings and moods, and she had a closet-full to prove it. As she crested the steps and shuffled the bags to fit her key in the lock, the November night's wind whipped her coat open and threw sleet into her face, and the warm feeling she'd gotten from shopping was soon extinguished by raw chill. Fitting weather for a no-thanks holiday, she thought, as she quickly let herself in.

By eleven, Cal was on his third bottle of lager as he watched the explosion of cranberries that was coating his stove with a fine red mist. The directions said to boil one cup water, one cup sugar and the bag of cranberries (washed) for ten minutes, uncovered, and Cal was following the recipe like gospel. "Bloody mess" he thought as he stirred the frothing red fruit and took a swig of his beer. Overall, however, he was feeling quite pleased with himself. Ever a man to 'get on with it', Cal had cleaned house like a man possessed when he'd arrived home. Bathroom fixtures shone, loose papers formed one tall stack on the side of his desk, books were arranged in neat piles, and the floors got a long-overdue suck-up with the vacuum. Emily had called from her mum's early in the evening to see how things were going, and to make sure Cal had gotten everything on his list, and he was happy to report that things seemed very much in control. "Luv ya, Em," he said fondly before disconnecting. He half- wished Emily would be there tomorrow to have dinner with him, but the thought that he wouldn't be alone even without her company compensated for the loss. The timer reverberated into his musing, and Cal flipped the burner off and looked for a dish to pour the berries into. Tomorrow he would cook the potatoes, set the table, pick up the turkey and retrieve his dinner guest in time for a 2 pm feast. He couldn't remember a Thanksgiving that he looked forward to as much.

Shortly after eleven, the credits were rolling, and Gillian had learned for the umpteenth time 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.' She'd poked her way through one of the cartons of take-out and had poured more than a few glasses of red wine down her throat. Sighing, she stabbed at a button on the remote, then tossed the rectangle onto the couch, where it would be handy for tomorrow's viewing marathon. She dragged herself to her feet and padded toward the bathroom, where she did her wash-floss-brush routine in desultory slow-mo. She then headed into the bedroom, hoping to sleep away as much of tomorrow as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

Gillian awoke at 12:55 pm to the sound of persistent pounding that had nothing to do with the headache she had from last night's wine. What the _hell_? She soon realized that it was coming from the direction of her front door and she jumped out of bed, grabbing her robe to pull on over her flannel pajamas and grimacing at the throb in her head. Pushing her hair back from her face, she was ready to do battle with whatever intruder _dared_ disturb her avoidance sleep.

Cal Lightman stood on her doorstep, more than a little agitated at the lack of response from within. He'd been stabbed with the brain-numbing thought that she _might_ have been telling the truth after all, that perhaps Julie _did_ have first dibs on Foster. But then he saw her barreling toward him, before making a sharp halt when she saw who it was. They stared at each other a minute through the glass, before Gillian opened the door.

"Cal…?"

"Bloody hell, Foster, you're still in your pajamas?!"

"Well, why _wouldn't_ I be?" she shot back, before remembering why she _shouldn't_ be. "Julie was sick and had to cancel, so I, um, decided to sleep in. Which I have every right to do," she added defensively. Then, in an attempt to gain control of the situation, she asked, "Why aren't you with Emily?"

"Emily's at her mum's," Cal said deliberately. He looked away, trying to regain some of his earlier bravado, before squinting back up at Foster.

"Lets get some clothes on, shall we, luv? You going to get dressed now?"

Gillian stared blankly at Cal. She seemed to be playing catch up in a race he'd already won.

"Cal, what are you doing here?" Her voice held a mixture of fatigue and irritation, and if she was at all glad to see him, she was masking it well.

"Tell ya when we get there, Foster," Cal said before bounding up and past Gillian, rubbing his hands to get some warmth back into them as he strode into her living room. "Colder 'n a bleedin' brass monkey out there, so dress warm, yeah?"

Gillian regained her senses enough to close the door behind Cal, and she warily followed him into the living room. He had flopped down in her beige armchair and was lightly drumming his fingers against the side. He grinned up at the kaleidoscope of expressions circling her face, then picked up her copy of Real Simple magazine from the glass-topped coffee table, thumbing through it. He feigned interest in an article that taught him how to "Tame the Clutter Before It Tames You!"

Gillian sat down with a sigh on the arm of her couch, and looked at Cal. He obviously wanted her to go somewhere with him, but she knew she wouldn't enjoy herself once she got there. She was in no mood to party or be around happy people, and he was practically quivering with the need to mingle. She decided that the honest refusal was the best one.

"Cal, I appreciate you wanting to take me somewhere, but I'm just not in the mood. I'm tired and grouchy and have a headache, and leaving this house is the last thing I want to do today." She studied the raised floral pattern on her white fleece robe before adding quietly, "I've never liked Thanksgiving, Cal, _ever, _and I don't want to ruin it for you, too. Go to your – party or whatever - and have fun." She closed her eyes, willing the headache – and Cal – to disappear.

Her eyes opened at the touch of Cal's hand lightly rubbing her left arm, his body directly in front of hers. His unguarded expression held sympathy and concern, and as he started to speak, he gently pulled her against him so that her head was resting near his collar bone. She resisted for a second, but being held this way felt so warm and comforting that she soon relented, allowing herself this one luxury.

"Can't force you to go anywhere now, can I?" he said, his right arm holding her steady against him. "But I promise you that if you were to come with me, you can be grouchy and sore and anti-social, and nobody will think twice about it. In fact, might even be able to _do_ something for it. Can you trust me on this one, luv? I'll let you take those hideous romance movies with us, yeah?" Cal gestured toward the table where several dvds were strewn. Gillian couldn't help but let out a small huff of amusement. She raised herself up from Cal's chest and met his eyes, searching his face for what might possibly be so important that would override her own determination not to leave. Cal's eyes were intent, and his eyebrows were raised in silent urging. Gillian was taken aback at how serious Cal was; he _really _wanted this. She searched her own, extensive list of reasons why she shouldn't go with him, but decided that the only _real _reason for her not going was her fear of the holiday itself. With Cal, however, unless he was getting decked, held hostage, shot at or participating in a poker game, the word "fear" was not a sensation she associated feeling with him. Gillian sighed softly and rubbed her forehead before saying in a small, resigned voice, "Okay. I'll come." She stood up from the couch, smoothed down her robe and stated, "But I have to shower first."

Cal rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. "Okay, then, but get crackin'. Don't wanna be late, do we, luv?"

"Well, one of us doesn't…" Gillian said dryly as she headed for the bedroom and her Macy's bag. She had noticed that Cal was wearing black jeans and a white, open-necked shirt underneath his black North Face jacket. She guessed that straight-legged jeans and her new angora sweater might fit the occasion – whatever it was.

Cal paced restlessly while Gillian took what seemed like a week's worth of showers. His mind was on what he had left to do with the dinner, and he ticked off each item in his head: carve the turkey, which was hopefully not getting too dry staying warm in the oven; mash the potatoes (which were currently stagnating in the water he'd boiled them in); nuke the rolls; set the dishes of cranberries, cole slaw and stuffing -which was keeping the turkey company- on the table; pour the wine; light the candles that were sitting on either end of the crystal bowl that contained beheaded pink roses in an inch of water. His hope was – after seeing the rather pitiful state Foster was in – to deposit her on the couch, where she could vegetate while he finished the meal preparations.

He heard the bathroom door open and saw a transformed Foster heading his way. She had another one of those pink tops on that she liked so much (he permitted himself a smug thought at the color of the roses), this one fitting like a second skin, and snug jeans that elongated her legs into blue stilts. Black ankle boots were on her feet, and her hair was loose and casual. She clearly had tried to look nice for his sake, and Cal's heart filled with the most warmth it had felt all day. She gave him a little smile, then went to the closet to grab her black parka. He met her coming out, and took the coat from her, holding it out for her to slip into. Foster rewarded his effort with a smile and a "Thanks, Cal," and as they headed out of the apartment, Cal grabbed the dvds and stored them under his arm. "Right, then, off we go." His other hand rested in the small of her back, propelling her gently toward his car.

Gillian relaxed with her head back and her eyes closed for most of the trip, after mentioning to Cal that she must be hungry because his car smelled like turkey (he had merely answered, "Does it? Huh."). At this point, she no longer much cared where they were going – maybe there was a surprise get-together with some of the members of the Lightman Group? – and she concentrated on trying to gear herself up for whatever social challenge lie ahead. Cal put on an Iron and Wine cd, low volume, and the band's soothing melodies felt good floating through Gillian's aching head. She had taken two aspirin before they left, and had stowed the bottle in her handbag in case more was required on the battlefront. She had nearly fallen asleep when the car slowed and came to an easy stop. Looking out, she recognized a familiar building.

"Cal? Is the party at your house?"

"More or less, luv. Shall we get out?"

He went on ahead of her and unlocked the front door. Soft light and wonderful smells welcomed her as she entered the hallway. It was blissfully quiet, and if the other guests were there, they had certainly come to a lull in the conversation.

Cal hung her coat up and steered her toward the couch in the living room. Gillian had a moment to notice a Scrabble board on the coffee table and register how _neat _everything looked, before Cal sat her down and said, "Give us your boots, luv." She numbly held up one foot then the other, and watched as Cal whisked them off and set them by a corner of the couch. He then smiled and said, "Relax, yeah? Be done in a jiff" before heading out to the kitchen, ignoring her dumbfounded look and whatever reply her open mouth was starting to form. Gillian slipped her feet up under her and pondered her situation.

Cal was scooping mashed potatoes into a red serving dish when he felt two hands press gently on his back. He set the spoon and the sauce pan down and turned around to find a tearful Foster smiling tremulously at him. She enveloped him in a hug and her tears wet the fabric of his shirt, making a translucent patch just under his shoulder. Cal wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly against him, stroking her back and massaging the back of her head with his fingers. After a while she let out a sniffling sigh, and peeled herself away from Cal's chest.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her face with her hands. "It's just that… I never expected… I never had anyone try to make Thanksgiving a good day for me. And you…" she took one of his hands, then gestured toward the dining room, "I saw the table… You did all this on your own – _for me?" _

Cal was both embarrassed and warmed by her display of naked emotion. He chuckled slightly and shook his head. "Nah, luv, not _all _for you. I'm a selfish bastard and wanted some company. You were available, so…" He shrugged and grinned at her before adding, "And if you don't let me finish getting dinner on, the only warm food we'll have around here is Chinese take-out that _you'll_ have to pick up."

Gillian smiled and gave Cal's hand a squeeze. Then she leaned in and gave him a slightly watery kiss on the cheek before asking, "What can I do?"

An hour or so later, Cal and Gillian were both slumped in their chairs, content and drowsy and stuffed beyond good sense. The turkey had been moist, the stuffing not too mushy, and Gillian had helped herself to second servings of both mashed potatoes and cranberries. Each had drank a couple glasses of wine ("hair of the dog, Foster"), and Gillian had remarked how the roses matched her sweater. They ate and bantered and traded stories, and Gillian told Cal about some of her past Thanksgiving disasters. Gillian was feeling so content and at home that she had to keep reminding herself what day it was. She was filled with gratitude toward Cal, who'd had the sensitivity and the determination to give this day to her. Reaching across the table, Gillian took Cal's hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. "Thank you, Cal. For everything. I've _never _had a better Thanksgiving."

Cal squeezed back, matching her warmth with his eyes and feeling pretty damn pleased himself. Then a corner of his mouth lifted, and he asked, "Fancy a game of Scrabble, luv? Or would you rather watch one of those bleedin' romantic comedies?"

Gillian laughed and stood up from the table, stretching. "I will beat you in Scrabble, Cal Lightman, but you must promise to use American spelling _and_ we need to clear the table and put away the leftovers first."

Cal grimaced at the thought of more work, but brightened at the challenge. "You're on, Foster."

Both players were yawning by the time Gillian's last triple word score vaulted her across the finish line, six points ahead of Cal. Her "Yes!" of victory sent a quiver of happiness through Cal, though he pretended to grumble about his own game being hobbled by the spelling rules. They both leaned back against the cushions, and Gillian closed her eyes, a contented smile on her face. She could melt right into these cushions and never get up again, she thought. A few minutes later, she felt hands on her shoulders, and looked over to see that Cal had shifted around and was pulling her down to stretch out beside him. She lay down on her left side against the back cushions, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest. A tired sigh of utter contentment escaped her.

"How's the head, luv?" Before she could answer, Cal had placed the palm of his right hand on Gillian's forehead, massaging it in small, gentle circles. She couldn't help letting out a groan of pleasure.

"Better now, thanks to you," she murmured. She was reveling in the sensation of her headache being rubbed away, and lay quietly for a few minutes. "Cal?"

"Yeah?"

"Whenever I think of Thanksgiving in the future, this'll be the one I'll think of. It'll be a _good _memory for a change. And you're the one I'll give thanks to for that." She pressed a kiss onto his shoulder and wrapped her arm around his waist.

Cal smiled and hugged Gillian closer. "Wanted to do it years ago, but the circumstances weren't quite right... Better late than never, yeah?" His voice tailed off and his breathing started to even out. Gillian could tell he was close to sleep.

"Cal?"

"Hmm?"

"Next year's at my place, okay? With Emily?"

He smiled and nodded slightly, and soon both of the couch's occupants had drifted away in the fading light of a late Thanksgiving afternoon.


End file.
